


cloudless climes and starry skies

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Series: Good Intentions 2020 [12]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27288490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: “They are Nine,” says Elrond Half-Elven, Lord of Imladris, Keeper of the Last Homely House. “Just as in the Shadow, there are Nine.”“Aye,” says Arwen Úndomiel, beloved Evenstar of her people. “But ought our Nine not have some little advantage? They will hardly know I am there, Ada.”
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Series: Good Intentions 2020 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978876
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54
Collections: Good Intentions: Abandoned and Unfinished WIPs





	cloudless climes and starry skies

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SORRY L I DIDN'T MEAN TO ABANDON THIS!! Someday I'll come back, probably!

“They are Nine,” says Elrond Half-Elven, Lord of Imladris, Keeper of the Last Homely House. “Just as in the Shadow, there are Nine.”

“Aye,” says Arwen Úndomiel, beloved Evenstar of her people. “But ought our Nine not have some little advantage? They will hardly know I am there, Ada.”

Sometimes, noble Lord Elrond looks at his daughter and sees a great deal more of his storied, troubled great-grandmother than he might like, and not at all in her clear grey eyes or her shining dark hair - no, for if it were only that she had Lúthien’s look, then his heart might rest easier. Arwen has a boldness in her that he has never dared to name entirely for fear that she might attempt to emulate Lúthien Tinúviel’s infamous example - why else would he set so achievable a goal for Aragorn, son of Arathorn, before consenting to grant the boy Arwen’s hand?

He had considered requesting the return of a Silmaril, now that all of Fëanor’s sons are gone from the world, but Arwen would never have forgiven him - he could never have borne that. Isildur’s throne is a trifle in comparison.

“Maybe that is so, daughter. Maybe you can hide from mortal eyes, but from those of the Shadow? I am not so sure.”

Celebrían already is lost to him until his last days in Middle-Earth because she was too bright to hide from such lowly evil as a band of marauding orcs, and he knows well that Arwen’s light is brighter than her mother’s. It would not be orcs sent to hunt  _ her.  _ No orc-den would do for the torture of the Evenstar, not when Minas Morgul and Barad Dûr stand tall enough to blot the stars from the sky. Even just the thought is too much to tolerate. 

“The Evenstar hides even from our eyes when she chooses, Ada,” Arwen says smilingly, as though this is a jest such as she and her brothers used play when they were children. Jests are few and far between in these dark days, but of course she tries to draw a smile from him. His smiles have largely been her domain, since Celebrían’s passing into the Undying Lands. “The Enemy never thinks of one such as me, I am sure - I am but a trinket to him. I will sneak by under his gaze, quiet and unremarked as a mouse.”

Elrond has kept his own house for long enough to know just how much trouble a mouse can cause. He knows his daughter well enough to know just how much trouble  _ she _ can cause.

He knows too how dearly the Enemy loves his trinkets. How much has been lost for one plain little ring, after all?

“Please, dearest one,” he says, taking her hands - so much like his own, like his beloved mother’s! There is a light in Arwen that all have always named as Lúthien’s or Galadriel’s, but there is something of Elwing the White in his daughter, too. Sometimes, when his spirits are low, he looks at Arwen and sees only all who are gone from him - but he has her, and the twins. He does not know what he would do if it were not so. “I could not bear your loss.”

She lifts their clasped hands and kisses his knuckles, just below Vilya’s cool weight on his finger. 

“Ada,” she says, her smile fading into solemnity. “Even if we are parted, I will never be lost. Not to you.”

* * *

Long has Arwen trained with sword and bow, and long has Aragorn watched her. His gaze is always respectful, never lingering in such a manner as to draw the attention of others, but never straying, either.

Sometimes, she revels in his open admiration. Sometimes, she teases him for it. Always, she appreciates it - her grandfather once admitted that he worried no mortal Man could love her as another elf might, but Aragorn’s regard has been unwavering from the first. He is the most constant thing in the world, more even than her father or the mellyrn of Lothlórien, and that is one of the things she loves best about him.

“You know,” she says, to him, glancing over her shoulder as the dulled edge of her practice sword comes to rest against Elladan’s almost without sound, “you could practice with me.”

Aragorn is leaning against the trunk of a pale poplar, as tall and slim as he was when first she loved him. He is all flushed and aglow from his own session, and Elrohir, returning with a flagon of water from the fountain that sings in the cloister, is pulling faces behind his back. Elrohir has had many years to perfect his silly faces, and Arwen must strain to hold back her laughter.

“I would lose every bout against you, my lady,” Aragorn says, taking the flagon from Elrohir without taking his eyes off her. “And well you know it.”

Elladan laughs, distracted enough that Arwen can catch him behind the knee with her heel and tug him off balance, all the way to the ground, and so Elrohir laughs as well, all diamond-bright and twice as lovely. It has been harder and harder to draw forth the laughter of her brothers since their lady mother departed for the Undying Lands, and Arwen treasures that as close as she does her father’s rare smiles, or her grandmother’s reassurances, or Aragorn’s kisses.

“Youth triumphs over experience once again,” Elrohir says, still laughing as he extends a hand to Elladan. “Well played, sister - tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” she agrees, accepting the flagon from Aragorn with a smile. “I think there is to be more poetry tonight at dinner, so whoever survives longest into sweet Bilbo’s efforts has advantage tomorrow.”

“Pray that Lord Glorfindel has some influence over this one, or I will be forced to surrender tomorrow’s bout after dinner tonight,” Elladan says, bumping his shoulder to Arwen’s as he passes. “Or pray that Estel has an offering that surplants  _ sweet Bilbo’s,  _ little sister.”

Elrohir kisses her brow on his way by, and the twins disappear noisily into the house proper. 

Aragorn sighs very quietly, and when she turns to him, he is more tired than she has ever seen him. 

“My father spoke to you?” she guesses, because no one else has the ability to make Aragorn so entirely sheepish as her lord father. “About my accompanying you all on your journey?”

Prince Legolas spoke to her directly, in his usual guileless, inelegant way, and seemed fascinated by what she refused to tell him about her training and lessons with her grandparents in Lothlórien. No doubt he thinks her a witch of some sort, just as Gimli Glóin’s son does, but she prefers that to the way the halflings watch her like a goddess, or Boromir of Gondor watches her like a viper at his breast.

Mithrandir, at least, can be relied upon. He will be grumpy and delighted by turns just as he always is, whether Arwen accompanies them or not. She has always liked him for his utter refusal to be awed even by her grandmother, and how little he changes in a world that seems to do nothing else. The day Gandalf changes will be a fell day indeed.

“He worries for you, that is all,” Aragorn says, taking her practice sword so he might return it to the stand by the fountain. “As do I.”

“You think me incapable of such an undertaking?”

“There is little in this world of which I think you incapable,” he says, wry as only he ever is with her. Everyone else outside of her family stands too much on ceremony, save her few friends. “But I worry for you regardless - you know that.”

She presses her hand to his cheek, eyeing him sceptically and finding, as ever, nothing but sincere concern and love in his eyes. 

“My heart,” she says, stroking her thumb over and back, brushing the corner of his mouth. “Trust in me.”

“Always,” he promises, kissing the pad of her thumb and smiling, just a little. “But I will always worry as well, and you must allow for both.”

* * *

“Good morning, Master Meriadoc,” the Lady calls cheerfully, and Sam ducks behind Bill. “And you, Master Peregrin, and Master Frodo, and- where has Master Samwise disappeared to?”

Sam swallows around the lump in his throat before he steps out to say hallo to the Lady, blushing like she’s Rosie Cotton asking him to dance and twice as tongue-tied. Merry and Took are laughing at him, he just knows it, and Mister Frodo can’t seem to understand why Sam’s a fool around the Lady, but, well, she’s the  _ Lady.  _ Even Strider’s a bit soft in the head when she’s about.

“There you are, Samwise,” she says, as lovely in her sturdy boots and long coat as she was in her silver-grey silks. Her hair is all gathered back from her lovely face, and there is a sword on her hip and a bow peeping over her shoulder. She looks as dangerous as she does pretty, and Sam’s fair bowled over by her, just as much as he was that first night at dinner. “How fares Bill?”

“Seems right enough, milady,” Sam manages, on safe ground talking about his pony. “He’s a sturdy sort - reckon he’ll manage this journey as well as any of us will.”

“Aye,” she says, something of her father, who scares Sam more than bowls him over, in her clear eyes as she looks Sam over head-to-heel. “I think he will, Master Samwise.”

Her pack is twice as big as Sam’s own, and he’d protest that if she weren’t an elf - but the other elf, Legolas of Mirkwood from Mister Bilbo’s stories, he’s carrying just as much and assured Mister Boromir that it was nothing at all to him, so Sam supposes that the Lady must be much the same.

He’ll ask Strider. Strider grew up here in Rivendell, so if anyone knows what an elf can manage, it’ll be Strider.

“‘Scuse me, Strider,” he says, nudging Strider as he passes in the Lady’s wake. “Not to put my nose in where it isn’t wanted, but I was wondering if I might ask you a question.”

“Of course, Sam,” Strider says, looking surprised - and rightly so, for Sam usually leaves it to Mister Frodo and the others to talk to Strider, who he likes very much but who’s very fierce and a bit rough. “How may I help?”

“Well, it’s only that Legolas says that his pack is no trouble, and the Lady’s is just as big, and I wouldn’t want to presume but Bill can manage another bit of weight if either of them needs to lighten their loads. But I wouldn’t want to intrude, Strider, you understand.”

“I understand well enough, Sam,” Strider assures him, which sets his mind at ease and no mistake. “I’ll speak with Legolas and Arwen for you, if that suits - although you might want to use her name, Sam. She prefers people not to be so formal, away from Rivendell.”

Sam has never been more shocked in all his life.

“ _ You _ might call her by her name, Strider, if it’s true that you’re promised to be married, but  _ I  _ shouldn’t like to!” he says. “Not until the Lady herself asks me to, no, not until then will I call her by her name. I shouldn’t call any lady by her name unless she said I could!”

“Hobbits and their manners,” Gandalf grumbles on his way past, looking very odd indeed with his great long sword belted over his long robes. Strider told them his sword is new, or at least that it’s new-made, but Gandalf’s has the look of a very old sword, like Mister Bilbo’s sword that he gave to Mister Frodo. “Leave him, Aragorn, you won’t convince him of anything if he thinks his manners are in the right.”

Well! That’s nice! As if Gandalf would know a manner if it jumped up and bit him!

Not that Sam will ever say as much, of course, but even so. 

They’re all more or less ready to set out now, with swords and packs and heavy coats, and Sam wouldn’t mind asking this Boromir if he’d teach them a thing or two about swords - he’d ask Strider, except he’s seen Strider use his sword and thinks that  _ that  _ might be a little beyond himself and Merry and Pippin. Boromir seems more the sort they need, and Sam’s a little less shy of him than he is of most of their company. 

“Ah, young master hobbit!” cries Gimli, startling Sam out of his considerations with a slap to the back. “All prepared for our adventure, lad?”

Sam’s about to assure Gimli that he has all his pots and pans packed away nice and neat, and wrapped up in spare linen that can be used for bandages if needs be but which is doing a nice job of keeping them from clanging for the moment. He has his spices as well, and a nice pot of good Hobbiton honey, and spare socks enough for all of them, because he asked Lord Elrond’s castellan for extra pairs since he knew no one else would think of them, but Gandalf starts huffing and Sam knows better than to try and talk over  _ him. _

The Lady smiles when Strider comes to stand beside her, bowing her head a little to hear whatever he’s whispering, and even Gandalf only rolls his eyes at  _ her. _

* * *

“Why does Boromir look so ill at me, but not at Legolas?” Arwen asks Aragorn as quietly as she can, taking advantage of the noise the Hobbits are making in setting up camp to hide her concern. “Master Gimli I can understand, but I did not think my father so ill thought of in Gondor that the Steward’s son should mislike me before I’ve even spoken to him!”

“He has many friends in Rohan, where they have become wary of Lorien,” Aragorn says, not even trying to hide his smile. “And he knows that the Witch of the Woods is your grandmother - would you not be wary, my love?”

She does not like the way he nudges his hip into hers, his smile sharpening to a grin.

“I think,” he says, “that you are simply unused to dislike.”

“Do you think me so petty?”

“Not petty, Evenstar - spoiled.”

She squawks, undignified as she can never be at Rivendell, and shoves him hard enough to send him laughing into the undergrowth. He lays there, moonlight bright on his face and starlight catching in his eyes, and watches her tramp away with her wounded dignity tucked tight around herself.

“Arwen- Arwen!”

“Until you find your manners,” she says, looking back over her shoulder at him with narrowed eyes and a struggle to bite back laughter, “I shall be sitting with Samwise, who is never less than perfectly polite.” 

That Samwise Gamgee is sitting with Boromir, son of Denethor, is a rare stroke of luck. Arwen passes by Gandalf, ignoring his suspicious watch only because Mithrandir is always suspicious, and helps herself to a hearty spoonful of Samwise’s rich-smelling rabbit stew before taking a seat to his left. Both he and Boromir startle as she settles, and she hopes she has not gone  _ too  _ far.

“I have been looking forward to this ever since you mentioned rosemary, Master Samwise,” she tells him, genuinely excited to try it - it has been so long since the lofty Lady Arwen has been allowed to descend far enough to eat such simple fare as well-seasoned rabbit stew, and the scent of Samwise’s pot has had all of them lingering near the fire when they had tasks to complete further afield. 

“It’s only a bit of stew, milady,” Samwise says, blushing so bright she can see it even in the uneven light of the cookfire. “Nothing special.”

Arwen tastes it.

“I name you a liar, Samwise,” she scolds, softening her words with a smile, “for this is special indeed - however did you manage such a tasty meal with such mean ingredients?”

“Not so mean, milady,” he says, shrugging and blushing even brighter. “Nice bit of rabbit, and Mister Boromir here did such a neat job of skinning and jointing them-”

“Just Boromir, Sam,” Boromir says, sounding fond already.

“Well, you did such a good job splitting them that most of the work was done,” Samwise says, waving away Boromir’s attempts at a protest - weak attempts, made with a smile on his face, but enough to make Samwise sit a little straighter. “And Pippin found those lovely mushrooms - one thing he’s good at, finding mushrooms.”

“If you are to call Captain Boromir by his name,” Arwen says around a mouthful of rich rabbit and meaty mushrooms, “and you already call Gandalf and Aragorn by their names, will you not use mine as well? I should feel much better for it, Samwise.”

His blush returns tenfold, scalding up his round cheeks so suddenly and so fiercely that Arwen is a little afraid that he might faint.

“I’ll call you Arwen, milady,” he says, “if you’ll call me Sam.”

“Well, that’s settled then!” she says, delighted. “I shall call you Sam so long as you call me Arwen, as all my friends do.”

His blush is all pleasure now, and even Boromir of Gondor looks a little softer toward her now than he did when first she sat down.

“Might I ask where Aragorn is gone, my lady?” he asks, as if only noticing Aragorn’s absence. “I thought he was with you.”

“He was,” Arwen says cheerfully, catching the apple Legolas tosses from across the camp without looking away from Boromir. “But I pushed him into a patch of nettles to remind him of his manners, and he has not yet made his way back.”

Boromir laughs so hard he starts to cough, which seems a fair enough first overture of friendship to Arwen’s mind.

* * *

Travel is slower than any of them would like, but such is the price of caution - Gandalf has ceased grumbling about Arwen’s presence simply because she’s so useful both as scout and packhorse, and sweet Samwise has appointed himself her chief scold.

“All I’m saying, Lady Arwen,” he says with his odd little accent and his air of long-suffering patience, “is that it might do no harm for you to sit and eat a bit. That’s all I’m saying.”

It might be all he’s saying, but it isn’t all he’s doing - Arwen finds it impossible to resist the way he shepherds her into the warmest spot by the fire, between Boromir and Gimli, and she is always delighted to accept whatever delicious mixture he has stirred up in his little iron pot. 

“Thank you, Sam,” she says, accepting a bowl of what smells awfully like broiled salmon - and yes, there it is when she looks down, bright pink and seasoned with what must surely be lemon balm. “However do you manage it, every day?”

“Well, I suppose Gimli and Boromir went fishing this morning while you were away scouting, and I had my herbs, and Aragorn found these things and said they’d taste like taters-“

And a scoop of what looks very much like buttery mashed potato is deposited in her bowl.

“Well, they’re doing the job,” he says cheerfully, pottering off to tidy up something or other - Sam is always anxious about their journey, but nothing seems to put him truly out of sorts save idleness. 

“I think he’ll disappear if he sits still,” Boromir murmurs around his cup of pungent Umbaran black tea. He guards his stash jealously, and has so far shared it only with the Hobbits and Arwen - that was how she knew for certain her attempts at friendship were working. 

“Either that, or he’ll start being shy again,” Arwen agrees, tucking into her inevitably delicious dinner. “Do you think he realises we were sincere when we offered to cook?”

“Don’t you dare,” Gimli says, aghast. “Finest fare I’ve ever had on the road, and I won’t have a Man and an elf spoil that for the rest of us.”

Boromir gives Arwen a fond look full of struggle while pouring her a cup of tea, and she bites down on laughter - Gimli’s pride is a delicate thing, particularly around her and Legolas, and it would not do to ruin the reputation of her father’s house for diplomacy and peace by causing a war with a prince of Erebor.

“I’m told the other Hobbits are fine cooks as well,” Boromir says, with a tact belied by the rapid pinkening of his cheeks above his beard. “Perhaps it is a cultural thing?”

“Or an expectation,” Arwen agrees. “Do Hobbit ladies expect their menfolk to be competent in the kitchen? It is never something I considered when I was being courted.”

She narrows her eyes at Aragorn across the fire, and his conversation with Frodo peters to an uncomfortable stop - he watches her quizzically in return, but she turns back to Boromir without explaining herself. Aragorn’s neck is still spotted with raised red dots, a mark of his adventures in the stinging nettles, and Arwen has found herself utterly delighted by how easy he is to unsettle - the early stages of their courtship were never so silly and fun as this, and she knows that he will agree as soon as he figures her out.

“Perhaps I should have,” she says, to which Boromir laughs.

Aragorn and Frodo return to their quiet, serious conversation, Frodo’s hand returning to his shirt-front over and over as he talks. Arwen catches Aragorn’s eye without teasing now, and is glad that he seems to have noticed this disquieting little habit as well. Merry and Pippin, meanwhile, are doing their utmost to draw Legolas’ bow - a feat even Arwen cannot manage - while he looks on in what looks like bafflement. 

Sam has settled into a round of bickering with Gandalf, as is their wont. Mithrandir will never admit it, of course, but Arwen can see how very fond he is of her little friend, and so they sit together and argue over the silliest, most inconsequential things most every night after dinner. It soothes Sam, Arwen knows, and she senses that it helps Gandalf think - crucial for them both. The rhythm of their company has become familiar already, the way it ebbs as they edge toward sleep, and Arwen has found herself settling into it every evening as well as she ever did the twins’ chatter or her grandparents’ good-natured debates. 

Gimli and Boromir are bickering as well, with considerably more heat. Arwen is only sort-of listening, but she thinks it’s something to do with Gimli’s refusal to acknowledge the beauty of Minas Tirith and of Osgiliath, and Boromir’s steadfast refusal to accept that there might be a city as fine as his own in all of Middle Earth.

Not for the first time, given her family, her blood, Arwen wonders how Gondolin would compare, or Aremenelos, or Alqualondë. As it is, there is only Rivendell and Caras Galadhon, and while Arwen loves both, they are no true measure of the beauty her people are capable of creating.

She retreats a little at that sobering thought, tugging her hood over her hair and ignoring all the questioning looks. Sam’s cooking is delicious, Boromir’s tea the perfect kind of tangy and sharp, but they are no true comfort to the sudden melancholy in her heart. 

Someday, she realises,  _ she  _ will be all that is left of her people in Middle Earth. That indeed is cause for quietude. 

* * *

“May I ask you something, my lady?”

“Of course, Captain,” Arwen says, dipping a nod of thanks when he offers her a hand to balance - not that she needs it, but she understands the sentiment behind it. He has a pair of grouse tied over his shoulder, but Arwen has a fine young buck over hers, and their party still forgets that she is as much an elf as Legolas until she shows them.

“Is it true that you are pledged to marry Aragorn?”

She stops, halfways down from the fallen tree she was crossing, and cannot mask her surprise. It isn’t that she and Aragorn have ever hidden their betrothal, but they have not spoken much of it either - she does not know who might have told him, because only Legolas and Gandalf know for certain, and one doesn’t talk much to Boromir and the other doesn’t seem to like him.

“It is,” she says. “Is that troubling to you?”

He smiles a little, shaking his head.

“Not as you think,” he assures her. “If this journey does end in our victory, and Isildur’s heir is restored to Gondor’s throne, I would welcome you as our queen.”

“More than you would Aragorn as your king,” Arwen says, which earns another of those half-smiles. “Why do you ask, Boromir?”

“Sam mentioned it,” he says, drumming his fingers on the tooled leather of the quiver hanging from his belt. “And I was surprised - I saw how well your father loves you, Arwen. I did not think he would allow something that has such… History.”

Lúthien and Beren, Idril and Tuor - Arwen has Lúthien’s face and Idril’s sword, has both their blood in her veins. She knows the choices they made, knows the pains those choices caused their kingly fathers, and knows the pain her own choice will cause. 

“I left him with little choice,” Arwen confesses, hitching her buck higher on her shoulder. “I love Aragorn, and he loves me - such things are different for my people than for yours. More significant. No one has ever truly stood between a love match, save Lúthien’s.”

“I still cannot imagine Lord Elrond yielded easily,” Boromir says. “I am of Númenor as well, my lady, and I know the stories - it simply seems strange to me, especially after-”

His hesitation is fascinating for being so rare. Boromir’s directness is one of the things she likes best about him.

“After?”

“Well,” Boromir says, looking uncomfortable. “After your mother’s departure.”

“Ada has always been protective of me,” she admits, “but he would not deny me my heart’s only desire - that would be more dangerous even than giving Aragorn and I his blessing.”

“I am not a scholar as my brother,” he says, pausing at a patch of brambles heavy with blackberries, and setting down his grouse to draw out a fine little net. He continues to think as he picks his blackberries, and Arwen sits as near as she can to allow him a moment to gather his thoughts. “I know my histories, though, my lady. I cannot think to blame your father for caution.”

  
  


* * *

“Tell me,” Aragorn says, with a salve of pulped dock leaves and a little kingsfoil smeared green and pungent on the rash on his neck that is damaging his serious air more than he seems to realise. “When did you decide to claim Sam?”

“As soon as  _ you  _ laid claim to Frodo, I think,” she says cheerfully. “You knew I would like him enormously and you didn’t even tell me! I thought you very rude for it.”

Truthfully, she had found her heart warming for Sam’s sake the moment she first met the Hobbits. Glorfindel had ridden away with Frodo, the Nazgul giving spirited chase, and Arwen had had only moments in which to plan a route by which Aragorn might guide the Hobbits to safety while she went to Glorfindel’s aid - but even in those few moments, Samwise Gamgee had made certain to ask who she and Glorfindel were, exactly, begging his pardon, and where did they think they were bringing Mister Frodo that was worth riding into the midst of the Black Riders, thank her for telling him.

She had been smiling even as she brought Hadhafang up against the first Morgul blade just for Sam’s spirit and loyalty. The smile had not lasted, of course, but his fierce sort of goodness had reminded her so much of her father that it had strengthened her heart and her arm, and allowed them all to reach her father’s house in safety. 

“I thought it would make a nice surprise,” Aragorn says, completely unashamed. “And truthfully, I did not expect to like Frodo as much as I do, but he has an old sort of a soul. I blame Bilbo.”

“Rightly so,” Arwen agrees, holding back a bough to allow Aragorn a clearer path. “And what of your other new friends, my heart? Did you expect them, or did they surprise you as well?”

The enmity between Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of Erebor seems to wane with every mile they walk, until the constant arguments between them are nearly as good-natured as those among the Hobbits. Arwen had hinted as much to Legolas only the other night, and he had seemed horrified to realise that he was on his way to friendship with a dwarf of the Lonely Mountain. Per Boromir, Gimli had been similarly annoyed to realise he doesn’t actually loathe Legolas as much as he thought. Both are quite open in their fondness for and admiration of Aragorn, though, and he has been happy to return both - he has always made friends easily, and kept them for the sincerity of his kindness. 

“I think they are much more surprised than I am,” he says, “although not so surprised as I am at  _ your _ newest friendship.”

“Boromir and I shall gossip about you over dinner for that,” she warns him. “Why shouldn’t we be friends, now that he knows I am no sorceress? We have more in common than you might think.”

Even just on the surface, Arwen has always been more outdoorsy than outsiders would realise - she has always loved riding and climbing and swordplay and shooting, and these all are things she know Boromir enjoys as well. But more than that, Boromir understands what a burden the love of one’s people can be. All of Gondor depends on his strong arm, his steadfast sword, and Arwen can feel that same weight on her own shoulders - Evenstar sounds like a pretty title, until one thinks about it. 

“If ever I have made your burden heavier,” Aragorn says, nudging his shoulder to hers, “then I am sorry.”

“I feel lighter around you than I feel around anyone but my brothers,” she says, “and even the twins… It is different.”

With Elladan and Elrohir, part of the lightness is all the shades and echoes of their lady mother she sees in them. That is why she sometimes prefers to sit with them instead of walking with Aragorn, because even her father has never meant as much to her as Celebrían of Lórien does.

Aragorn understands that absence, for Gilraen the Fair is as gone from him as Naneth is from Arwen, and Aragorn loved his mother just as fiercely as Arwen loves hers. Boromir understands it as well, though, and Arwen thinks that it might even be that he understands her particular grief a little better - he has told her some of his childhood, of the struggle of balancing his father’s love and bitterness in one hand and his brother’s needs and admiration in the other… Yes. She can understand it. From the moment her mother rode for the Grey Havens, her brothers and her father began looking to her for something of her mother’s light, and she knows that it is whatever similarities she bears to her mother than have made her so obviously her grandfather’s favourite.

Arwen will never see Naneth again. She must seek out as much of those remnants in the twins and in her grandparents before they, too, are lost to her. She has never spoken of that to Aragorn before, but Boromir spoke of it to her after he found out that she was pledged to marry Aragorn. She never would have expected anyone to see her heart in such things, but this son of Men is more perceptive than anyone seems to have noticed.

“There is more to brave Captain Boromir than you might think,” she says. Aragorn only shrugs, but he will understand in time. Isildur’s shadow lies dark and heavy between them now, but Arwen thinks she knows both their hearts well enough by now to know that it will not always be so.


End file.
